A Collection of Christmas Oneshots
by 39addict101
Summary: #JBE2017 A collection of oneshots for Etincelle's writing prompts.
1. Chapter 1

_Paper Clip_  
Holding a paper clip in one hand, and a stack of papers in the other, she tried to shove the paper clip over the papers.

It didn't work. The measly paper clip stretched, and the papers fell to the floor. Cursing, she picked them up and tried again. this time with the half the papers.

Once again, it didn't work.

Sighing, and rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, Sinead Starling plopped down on a big office chair. Work wasn't easy for her.

Ever since the Vesper . . . incident . . . she had been shunned from the rest of the family.

Without her Cahill connections, Sinead found herself without a job. She had to be an office girl, working for Taco Bell in the finance department.

Working with numbers, however enjoyable to some people, was not so enjoyable for Sinead. She didn't mind plugging numbers into an algebraic formula, but trying to figure out other people's pay, and how much money the company was making bored her to death.

Plus, her coworkers hated her.

They seemed to sense that she was only here because she couldn't find a job elsewhere, and they resented the fact that she was smarter than they.

They hated her very existence, although they were polite to her.

But there politeness was nothing more than a cold, formal, "Hello. What's up?"

They cared not at all for her personal life, so she responded with an equally cold, "Hey. Nothing."

Maybe she wasn't trying hard enough, but, she reasoned, they weren't trying either.

Sometimes, walking into a conference room, she thought she heard her name being whispered.

It hurt her, more than they knew, that she didn't have a friend in the world.

She hadn't talked to any Cahills for a while. Christmas was coming soon, and she didn't know what she was going to do for the holidays.

There certainly wouldn't be any festive celebrations for her.

Sighing, she reached down and picked up the fallen papers, and the abandoned paper clip. Just then her cell rang. Not bothering to look at the number, she picked up. "Hello?"

"Hello? Sinead? Sinead, this is Amy. Amy Cahill." Amy's voice was soft, sweet, just the way Sinead had remembered. It was like a kick in her gut after all that had happened. After her . . . . betrayal.

"Oh. Amy. Hi." Sinead hated the coldness that crept into her voice when she spoke.

Amy sighed. "Look, Sinead, I'm not her to try and make you feel bad or anything. I wanted to invite you to our Christmas party. We've all missed you, even Ian."

Sinead snorted. "Right. More like he wants to yell at me for what I've done. To him, and his mom and . . . . Natalie." She could feel the tears coming, and blinked rapidly, trying to stop them.

There was a long silence. When Amy finally did say something, she didn't mention anything about the destroyed Kabra family. "Sinead. We all want you to come. Its next Sunday. Twelve o'clock sharp."

Sinead rolled her eyes. It was just like Amy to throw in the "sharp". Sighing, she responded, "Amy." The word was rough on her tongue. "If I can make it, I'll be there. Don't count on me coming."

Amy didn't say anything for a while. The silence stretched between them, an uncrossable abyss that stretched every second. Just as Sinead was about to hang up, Amy suddenly blurted, "Sinead? Call me if you can come, ok?"

Sinead snorted. "Ok. I'll save your number and we can start texting again, cuz we're going to be such great friends now, because you can just forgive me, just like that." She knew the words were a stab in Amy's heart, and hers. "I'll save your number. Bye."

Sinead hung up, watching the number flash on her screen. Suddenly, for whatever reason, she hit save.

A coworker suddenly appeared in the doorway, her pretty blonde hair expertly curled to frame her face. Sinead couldn't stand her. All she ever did was snub Sinead, acting as if she was some type of punk.

Sinead assumed it was because she was so much smarter than the pretty blonde. Probably, she was jealous of the fact that most everyone was smarter than her, and since Sinead was a genius, she took out her hate, jealousy, and utter distaste for those smarter than her on Sinead.

The girl looked at Sinead. "You were sure rude to that girl, Sinead."

Sinead gasped. The girl had heard the entire conversation.

"Who's Natalie And what did you do to her, and her brother, and her mother?" Smirking, the girl continued, "I bet you won't go to that party. You're afraid. Whatever you did to Natalie doesn't matter. But you're afraid to face their scornful faces, to feel their wrath, which is just what you deserve."

Sinead bit her lip, trying to restrain herself from yelling. The damm paper clip still wouldn't hold the papers. Opening it wider, she shoved the clip towards the papers, and missed. The sharp part of the clip hit her thumb, hard.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, she tried to ignore the girl, who had continued talking. "You were so mean to that girl. That wouldn't happen to be . . . Amy Cahill, would it?" She was practically drooling as she spoke. "I mean, if I was talking to Amy Cahill, of all people, I would not be so rude. But then again, Amy probably does hate you too. She's only having pity on you. Amy Cahill would not invite an office girl to a party!" The girl sneered.

Sinead shut her eyes. Suddenly, before she knew what she was doing, she whipped out her phone, and touched Amy's number.

"Hello? Amy? This is Sinead. I'm coming." She smirked at the girl. "I've accidentally engaged myself in a battle with some paper clips, and a really /dull/ one tried to hurt me, it was like, so rude," Sinead looked at the girl while she spoke. Dull had been intended. Hopefully the girl was smart enough to pick up the hidden meaning. "Anyway, when it tried to poke me, I suddenly realized how rude I've been to you. I'm sorry, and like I said, I'm coming. I'll bring a pie. But I've got to go right now, I've got papers to deal with. Bye." She shut off the phone before Amy could insert a single word.

The girl turned away, her face a mask of hatred.

Sinead had to resist a smile. Vengeance was oh-so-sweet.

 _Knife_  
With a pumpkin pie in one hand, and her fears in the other, Sinead rang the all-too-familiar doorbell of the Cahill mansion. Memories flooded her: Amy and Sinead practicing their karate. Amy and Sinead running down the long driveway, their feet pounding on the gravel. Amy and Sinead . . .

She had to stop herself. Brake herself right where she was. Why were her memories always, "Amy and Sinead"?

It just showed what she had done. She had lost her best friend. She had destroyed the friendship she had worked so hard to gain.

And it hurt her. And she knew it hurt Amy.

She looked around her, at the rosebushes, dead with cold, at the trees, bare, and leafless in the cold. She saw the sidewalk, how neatly it was swept. She noticed how the flowerbed was neatly mulched, even though it December.

Sinead knew it was Amy who had done it. Amy had always done a thorough job, at everything. Sometimes it had caused Sinead to burn with envy as she'd seen others complement the girl, and skip right over her.

She understand why her coworkers hated her. She understood much more than they knew. But she relished the attention, relished the admiration of those below her, even at the cost of the friendship of those equal to her.

She looked up at the cold blue sky, with its puffy white clouds. They seemed to speed by, reminding Sinead of just how delicate life was, and how quickly it passed.

And then the door opened, and Amy was standing there, with Dan behind her back, staring at Sinead as if she was a frog on a couch.

Sinead smiled, and awkwardly held up her pumpkin pie. "I . . . I brought this."

Amy smiled, and grabbed the pie. Passing it to Dan, who looked ready to devour it, she pulled Sinead into a hug.

Sinead could feel the warmth, the kindness, the caring radiating off Amy. Amy leaned over and whispered into her ear, "I forgave you a long time ago, I just wanted you to know that."

Sinead stiffened, and pushed Amy away. Looking the girl in the eye, she said, "Do you mean it?" Her voice was trembling, uncertain.

Amy nodded. "As soon as I saw Ted come away from the Vespers, I understood. I would have done the same thing for Dan."

Sinead looked down at the floor. "Thank you." She could feel the tears coming. Pulling Amy into another hug, she placed her head on the girl's shoulder, and shut her eyes.

When she opened them, Dan was sitting on the floor with a knife, eating her pumpkin pie.

"Dan!" She yelped, shoving a confused and disoriented Amy out of the way. "Give me that! That's not just for you, you . . . you pig!"

Dan grinned, and holding the knife, stuffed another piece of pie into his overstuffed mouth.

Grabbing the knife from Dan's grubby hands, Sinead set the pie on the counter, and laid the knife beside it. Sighing, she looked closer at the knife and realized it was dirty from where Dan had set it on the floor. Stepping over to the sink she had used so many times before, she washed it in scalding water, then held it up in the light, trying to see if she saw any spots of dirt on the gleaming blade.

Just then, she heard a voice behind her, "Well, if it isn't Sinead Starling, back to betray us again, this time with a kitchen knife."

Sinead whirled around, and saw Madison Holt standing in the doorway her arms crossed, holding a tub of whipped cream.

 _Whipped Cream_

Sinead bit her lip, trying to keep back the flow of hatred that threatened to spill from her trembling lips.

Grabbing onto the linoleum counter for support, Sinead looked at the girl, standing spitefully in the doorway. The words fell from her lips before she knew what she was saying, "I'm sorry, Madison. I'm so sorry. I never would have done it if it hadn't been for Ted's blindness."

Then she realized she had hit the perfect spot. Madison winced. The Franklin Institute was something the Holts did not care to talk about, especially since they had been trying to get the two Cahill brats, as Amy and Dan had formerly been called.

Madison turned away. "Here." She said. "Amy sent me in here to give you this. She said you thought you would like some whipped cream to go with your pie."

Sinead reached forward and took the whipped cream gently from the girl's trembling hands. Madison yanked her hands away as soon as the cream was out of her hands. Sinead grabbed the girl's wrists, preventing her from leaving.

The fear she saw in Madison's eyes hurt her. "Madison." She said soothingly. "I meant it. I'm reallly sorry. If I could take my actions back, I would."

Madison looked at her. "I know how you feel." Her voice was low, halting, as if afraid to speak to the traitor. "If I could take back my actions at the Franklin Institute . . . ."

Sinead nodded, her eyes tearing up. "I understand. I think that's something all of us Cahills, including Dan and Amy, understand. We've all commited regretable actions, and they can't be taken back." Sinead smirked. "Just ask Ian about Korea. He'll probably have a heart attack."

Madison smiled. "Don't worry. I already have." She looked up at Sinead, her girlish eyes searching Sinead's. "Your brothers told me to tell you they're here, and they want to talk to you."

Suddenly Sinead gasped. "They're all here, aren't they? They were all here when I got here, weren't they? They were watching me. And they sent you because . . . . why?"

Madison shrugged, but it was obvious that she knew.

Sinead groaned. "They all hate me, and they're afraid to face me."

Madison nodded. "I wanted to come up here and yell at you, so I volunteered. It wasn't until you brought up the Franklin Institute that I realized I'd done the same thing." Pausing, she looked up at Sinead. "Can I tell them what you showed me?"

Sinead smiled and nodded. "I guess so. I think they'll understand too." A glint of mischief appeared in her eyes. "But first, tell them I did this." Madison watched in wonder as Sinead opened the whipped cream tub.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Madison asked.

Sinead dug her hand into the whipped cream, and slapped it all over Madison's face.

Squealing, Madison wiped her hands off her face, and grabbed for the cream. But Sinead was too quick. Snatching up the whipped fluffy whiteness, the Ekaterina dug her hand in again, and flung another handful at Madison.

It hit the girl square in the nose.

Screaming, Madison protested loudly, "Don't! Its not fair! I don't even have a weapon!"

Down in the living room, everyone had been waiting anxiously for Madison to come down with Sinead.

Ian, with the ears of a cat, had insisted that he'd heard Madison squeal, and tried to convince Hamilton to go sneak a peak.

Hamilton had protested, saying, "But I'm too loud! You should go Ian, you'll be quieter than me!"

Now they arguing over who should go.

And then they heard the scream, and the words that followed, "Don't! Its not fair! I don't even have a weapon!"

Hamilton's thick mouth dropped open, and he was up and running towards the door, Reagan and Ian right behind him.

Amy's hand began shaking. "I thought she wouldn't. I thought she wouldn't." She said, and then she charged after the Holts and Ian.

Catching up to them in the hall, they ran towards the kitchen, and stopped right in their tracks when they saw what was going on.

Instead of a bloody mess, as they had expected, Sinead and Madison were both covered in white whipped cream, dotted with orange pumpkin.

When the two girls saw the observers, they both stopped, Madison with a handful of whipped cream, and a piece of pie in the other, ready to sling at Sinead.

Sinead stared at the onlookers, and then she burst out laughing, remembering Madison's scream.

Madison, as if suddenly realizing how stupid she looked, burst into peals of laughter, which brought the rest of the Cahills running towards the room. Even Ian's normally serious face held a smile.

Amy, finally regaining her sanity, said, "Well, Sinead, what do you think started this?"

Sinead smiled, and remember the past couple days, said, "A paper clip, a knife, and some good old whipped cream."

Amy, Dan, and Madison were the only ones who understood part of the lingo the girl was speaking.

 **Thanks to Etincelle for hosting this prompt. It was really fun for me to write.**  
 **I guess I never realized until now what you can do with a few words.**  
 **Also . . . I want to apologize in advance. I won't be updating a lot of my stuff. I honestly think that In A World Of Hunger, and most likely The Clock of Death are going to be deleted. I'm also going to be deleting some other stuff, and possibly combining some oneshots that I feel could be compatible together. (The one about Isabel Kabra's funeral, and the one when Ian is sitting by Natalie's grave . . . totally forgot their names, sorry!)**  
 **I also might be making a "OneShot" Story, where just combine a bunch of oneshots, no matter how unrelated they are, and throwing them together.**  
 **This makes me look more sane. (Like, how many others have been on here for 8 months with 39 stories?) Yeah, exactly . . . . so I'm going to be doing something like that . . . if Bio ever gives me a break.**


	2. Chapter 2: Week Three

_Pine Cone_

Every Christmas, I am remembered. Every other season, I am forgotten. I hang on a pine tree an old, forgotten pine cone, and my one dream is to find something out that happened many years ago, and then I can die in peace.

People do not appreciate me, and they underestimate my worth. But perhaps that is a good thing, for I see and hear so many things that I wouldn't if they knew.

You see, I can understand human speech. We all can. Those blades of grass you step on? Those flowers you mercilessly pick? Yeah, that's us, the living things of the under-estimated world.

We eavesdrop on your conversations, and sometimes, just sometimes, we even interfere in your personal affairs.

It all started two Christmases ago. It was a cold, stormy night, and the wind was howling mercilessly. I clung to my branch with all the strength my connecting twig could muster, afraid that this was going to be my last day alive.

I hung on, although others didn't. I mourned for my friends, as did the rest of us, but that's how life is, and we have to accept it and make the best of it. (Have you ever heard of CPR for pinecones?)

After the storm, we were all coated in a thin sheet of glittering ice that sparkled like diamonds in the bright sunlight.

The snow was thick too, and some of my neighbor's branches fell to the ground from the weight of snow and ice. (I do recall being quite . . . . _pleased_ that my neighbor, grouchy Mr. Prickles, had fallen also. All he ever did was complain, and it quite got on my nerves.)

With the snow a lamb-white, and the sun shining merrily, humans decided (stupidly, I think) to go out for a walk.

They stomp through the snow, and their voices ring out obnoxiously in the still silence of woods.

But one girl was different. She seemed to live, breathe, move, as though she had been born in the forest. Her steps were slow, careful, calculating. She had moved softly, like a shadow, and had quietly sat down, her snowsuit wrinkling loudly, and leaned against my tree.

She hadn't said a word. She was alone. And she hadn't had one of those things that humans jabber constantly into . . . a cell phone . . . (those things think they're above us. Ha! The nerve of those stupid robots, created by human hands). Anyway, this girl had just sat underneath our tree, just sitting. Her eyes had wandered over the landscape, but she had made no attempt to _fix_ anything, as some humans do.

She seemed distraught that she had left behind footprints in the blanket of snow. She had sat quietly for maybe twenty minutes, and then left.

The next day, she had come again, but this time, she had brought with her a little notepad. Plopping down beneath me, she had opened her the pad, and had begun to compose the most beautiful thing I have ever seen humans write.

 _Dear Ian,_ The letter said, _I hope you realize how much I love you. Mummy won't let me tell you anything_ sentimental _(which I think is stupid and mean of her, dear Ian,) and I just wanted to write you this and tell you. Make sure that you burn this when you're done, because if Mummy finds it, we'll all be toast. Literally._  
 _Anyway, on a happier topic, I would like to tell you that you have been a great older brother to me, especially seeing how Mummy refuses to let us talk loving to each other. You've always managed to find some creative way to show your love to me, and I can't seem to do that myself._ The girl had paused here, and I had strained my small eyes, hoping she wasn't finished. Thankfully, she wasn't. (If she had taken it home to finish, I probably would have thrown myself off the branch from pure sadness). The letter continued, _But I guess that's all I can think to write right now, without seeming like a total lovesick idiot. Just remember, Ian, I'll always love you. -Your sister, Natalie._

She had smiled as she'd re-read the letter, and the young pinecone next to me had almost blurted out, "What's it say? I can't wait anymore!"

Thankfully, the young sap managed to keep his mouth shut, and we weren't found out. Thankfully.

I still haven't found out what happened to the girl, or to her letter. I can only hope, and pray, and it made its way into Ian's hand, and not the poor girl's witch mother.

 _Taxi Cab_

The street was smooth underneath my tires, and the road rolled away endlessly behind me, miles and miles of track that I had completed.

I'm kidding. The roads were slick with ice, and it took all of my concentration just to stay on the road, although the idiot driver thought he was doing all the work.

While it is true, to some degree, that humans do help us, they only tell us where to go. They think that they tap the brake, but in reality, it's us. We're the ones that do all the work, except for the navigating.

The life of a taxi cab is much harder than the life of a regular car. For one thing, we're always going, and we never get rests in parking lots all day while our "drivers" do their business inside.

We never get to talk to other cars, nor do we talk to the sparrows that sit up in the scruffy trees above us and ask if we have any messages to relay to the indoor world, or to the outdoor world.

Yes, our world is much more complicated than you idiot humans can imagine. The birds, and a few select animals, know of our existence as living creatures, but the birds are the only ones who carry messages.

The flowers and the grasses. the trees, even the minutest leaf are all alive. The indoor appliances, the TV, and the radio, the toaster and the oven, even the laptop, are all alive.

The laptops, TVs, and radios don't need the birds. They transmit messages to each other of their own accord, but us outdoor living things need help.

So we asked the birds. They had willingly agreed, and they have the best memories. They remember stories told to them, and they tell us stories which the plants tell them. In return, we tell them stories of our hard days on the road, and sometimes, we even have a "favorite" which we send especially for that person.

Suddenly, I feel my emergency brakes kick on, and I realize I was lost in thought. I'm going to kill myself someday if I'm not more careful.

I brake, and pull to the side. A tall, elegant man holding a briefcase and talking on a cellphone nods to the driver and opens the door.

Sitting down inside I feel his weight added to my back. Sighing, I take off, following the directions of the taxi driver.

And then I hear what the man is saying. But before I tell you, let me tell you something else.

You know that blue-tooth thingy that humans connect to their car? That's really so that us cares can listen in on the humans conversation.

So anyway, I'm hearing every word this man is saying, and its quite interesting.

"You what?"

"That's right!" A woman says.

"But . . . . I lost that years ago." He responds.

Lost what? My curiosity is increasing with every second.

"I'm coming over. I need to see that letter. Natalie gave me that letter, and as you know . . ." He paused.

"Ian!" The voice is comforting, and I can feel Ian relaxing into my seat. "I understand. Natalie was special to you. I'll save it."

Ian and Natalie? I muse. Something is bugging me, a small twinge in the back of my brain, but I shrug it off, and continue driving.

The city lights are bright tonight. The noise is loud, ringing in my ears. It is nearing Christmas, and humans are busy, running around the city, their shrill voices echoing around me.

My driver indicates for me to stop by stepping on the brakes, and I slow down. Pulling over to a small house, the man gets out. He is still talking on his cell phone, and my eyes unconsciously follow him. A small bird swoops down and asks if I would like her to stay.

I answer yes, and then I have to go again.

The bird looks at my license, and flies after the mysterious man with the briefcase.

The day passes quickly for me in a flurry of zooming about the city. At last it was now night, and I am parked in the lot, waiting for the bird.

After a while it comes cheerily flying over to me. Its voice is high-pitched, but merry. "You'll never guess what just happened."

I'm tired, so my voice is groggy. "What?"

"I eavesdropped on the man, and it rang a bell. I'd heard a story that sounded similar to the man's from a pinecone, many years ago."

I gasp in surprise. "Of course! I've heard it too. The sister wrote her brother a love note, because her mother wouldn't let her express herself verbally."

The bird nods. "Right! So when I heard his story I flew as fast as I could to find that pinecone. Thankfully, it wasn't far away, and it confirmed my suspicions. I told him the rest of the story. He had no clue what happened to the girl, or her letter." He pauses, and tries to catch his breath.

"The girl died a while ago, by some Vesper group or something." He continues.

The car next to me gasps. "Vespers? I used to drive them around. The Cahills defeated them soundly, but they lost some people. What are there names?"

The bird's cry of astonishment is high-pitched. "Humans! They're such idiots. We never fight, and we're surviving. They seem to think that you have to fight in order to survive. But anyways, their names were Ian and Natalie Cobra or something. As soon as I heard "snake" I backed out pretty fast so . . ."

The car next to me shuts his eyes, thinking. "Of course! Ian and Natalie Kabra. Natalie, age thirteen, was killed by a tragic accident. It had something to do with a doomsday device something or other. I'm pretty sure she was electrocuted."

I'm crying now, but I'm now embarrassed. "I can't believe it. This is so . . . interesting, yet sad, and strangely amazing."

The bird nods, and continues telling me the rest, but you already know it, don't you?

 _Lights_

I know, I know. You want to hear the rest. So that's why you came to me. I'm sure by now you aren't even surprised that the lights are alive either, so I won't bother with any exposition.

Yes, Amy Kabra, once Amy Cahill, found the letter in an old box of Ian's. He'd thought that it had been lost many years ago.

Ian Kabra was an old man when Amy found the old handwritten letter, with its childish writing. But what the birds and the car, and of course the pine cone couldn't tell you is that Ian Kabra was sliding down the drain.

His health was failing him, and he had just come back from quitting his job when Amy had called him.

I don't have the fancy hook-up that the cars do, so I only heard one side of the conversation. But when Ian came home, I could see everything.

He sat on the couch, and cried. I've seen him cry before, of course, but I've never seen the tears fall down his face so freely.

Even Amy's eyes had been a little wet, and I'm afraid that I almost let the light go out, my eyes were so moist.

Ian had left the letter on his bed-stand and gone to bed. That was yesterday.

Today, I am sad to inform you that Ian Kabra was found stiff and cold in his bed, clutching a small handwritten letter, written by a little girl so many years ago.

He was smiling when Death took him.

The letter gave him peace in his last hours - even in the face of death.

* * *

 **Wow. That was really fun for me to write . . . even though I'm pretty sure I switched tenses in there a couple times . . . but I can't catch it when I re-read it . . . which shows all of you how bad of a writer I am.**

 **Thanks guys, for reading this. If you have time, feel free to drop me a review. :DDDDD**


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